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Microfiction: Tiny Stories that Pack a Mighty Punch

By Beth Greenberg September 10, 2020 November 22, 2024

Could you tell a whole story with 1000 words? (That’s “flash.”) How about 100? (That’s “microfiction.”) 7? (Hmm, that’s a definite challenge!)

I’ve previously blogged about my early forays into flash fiction (1000 words as defined by the contest guidelines), but recently I’ve been experimenting with shorter forms: 750, 500, and even 100. I love the challenge of paring away the extras until the essential story is all that’s left. What a fantastic exercise in understanding what “story” means.

I love this definition from Lisa Cron’s Story Genius so much, I have it pinned above my desk on an index card to use as my guide whether I’m writing 100 words or 80,000:

A story is about how the things that happen affect someone in pursuit of a difficult goal
and how that person changes as a result.
Lisa Cron

The shortest story forms only allow for a small cast of characters and one or two scenes, though I’ve seen a few that skillfully navigate more. As a writer, you have to choose each word carefully to convey character, motivation, action, and stakes to the reader. And if I’ve learned anything from the judges’ feedback, you have to stick that landing, just like gymnastics.

Since they’re bite-sized morsels, I thought it might be fun to share the three 100-word microfictions I wrote (in 24 hours each) for the NYC Midnight Microfiction challenge over the summer. At the great risk of a too-lengthy blog post, I’ve also included some gleanings after each story. I hope you’ll be inspired to try your hand in the comments below!

Round 1

Genre: HORROR
Action: PLANTING A SEED
Word to be used: “INSEPARABLE”

LITTLE MIRACLES

I approach their table and flash the grin Lily loved, back when we were inseparable. Before the restraining order.

“Hey, Lil,” I say. “Pregnancy suits you.”

Lily turns whiter than the tablecloth. “Clay?”

“Hiya, Mitt,” I say. Her husband clenches. “So, Lil, guess you did want a baby after all?”

Just not mine.

“Why are you here?” Lily asks tightly.

“To tell you about my job. I spin sperm now. Oh, and thirty-two weeks ago, your fancy fertility doctor planted my seed inside your womb.”

Her hand flies to her round belly.

“Yep. Looks like we’re all having my baby.”

—

What I learned from this one:

Get an expert. My OB-GYN buddy Kathleen LeMaitre was kind enough to explain centrifuges and other insemination details that didn’t make it into the written story but helped me understand how things work
I gave away the “punch line” too soon.
There’s a reason I don’t write horror. Yuck.

That said, I squeaked by with the lowest possible score to advance to the semifinals.

Round 2

Genre: COMEDY
Action: SNORKELING
Word to be used: “SCAM”

BUCCANEERS OF THE PLASTIC WRECK

“As advertised, find the Lost Ruby, your tour’s on me!” I bent toward the three little pirates. “Ready to dive for sunken treasure, mateys?”

Pirate-themed snorkel tours. Easy money, they said.

I chased those hellions for hours, hobbling around on my faux-peg leg while their mom tanned on the deck. The boys fought. They ate. They peed over the side. Finally, they snorkeled.

“I found it!” shouted the oldest, waving a red plastic gem I definitely hadn’t hidden in the wreck.

Mom was gleeful but not at all surprised. “Free trip!”

I’d met my match. Scammed by a true pirate.

—

What I learned from this one:

It’s darn hard to be funny on command, and I really wasn’t. Most of the comedy that made its way into the final story, I owe to my amazing writers’ group, a talented bunch I’ve met through the contest forums. Our beta-read critiques (aka “the swarm”) are solid gold for improving stories, learning from other writers, and building true, respectful community. I hope someday to meet more of them in person.
The last line was originally written as dialogue (and unfortunately submitted that way to the contest). Another writer on the forum suggested this edit, and I wholeheartedly agree it’s better this way.

Once again, I squeaked by with the lowest possible score to advance to the FINALS!

Round 3

Genre: ROMANCE (writer’s choice)
Action: UNPACKING A SUITCASE
Word to be used: “LIGHT”

OUT OF THE BOX

It’s not Roger’s fault he’s about to break my heart; he doesn’t even know I have one. Age has slowed his tongue and fingers, a mortal blow for a pair like us. Tonight might be our last tryst.

Ten minutes to curtain.

Buckles pop. The suitcase lid opens. Roger appears, haloed by light.

“Hello, gorgeous,” he says, eyes moist. “Ready for our final show?” Loving hands lift me from my velvet-lined bed.

It’s now or never.

Summoning my might, I open my fiberglass mouth. “I love you, Roger.”

Roger’s jaw drops. “I, um, …”

“Roger, please…”

“I love you, too!”

—

What I learned from this one:

Ambiguity is your friend… unless it stays with the reader after the ending. Sadly, the “fiberglass mouth” was not clear enough to solidify what was being pulled out of that velvet-lined case. Did you guess… a ventriloquist’s dummy? One judge could not decide which musical instrument Roger was about to play. ☹
Sometimes, 24 hours is not enough! I tinkered with the piece up till 11:52 pm— NOT ADVISABLE—and totally missed nailing the ending. Regrets. This piece should have focused on the narrator gaining her voice for the first time, Roger hearing that voice for the first time and realizing he’d failed to recreate her honeyed tone. The title, too, should have reinforced this theme.

Got a 100-word (or fewer) story you’d like to share in the comments? I’d love to see what you come up with!
Thanks for reading!

P.S. – Did you know you can receive blog updates straight to your inbox? Yup! Just enter your email address in the box below and cut out the middle man. This is a no-spam zone! I post to my blog roughly once a month. (Not to be confused with my NEWSLETTER, which is all the current book stuff, sneak peeks, special deals, etc. And you can sign up for my newsletter by clicking on the big open heart at the bottom of this page.)

Flash Fiction

We made the finals!

By Beth Greenberg December 15, 2016 October 16, 2023

Welp, I certainly wasn’t expecting to get to the finals… but here we are. And I say “we” because a LOT of people have helped me each round. A few lucky folks got tapped EVERY round and some rotating “experts” depending on the subject matter. If you’re reading this post, you’re part of the village, too. It’s not really much fun to sit around and write stuff if nobody reads it. So thank YOU for being here. I mean that.

Here’s where you can find my blog posts on the other 3 rounds of this contest:
Round 1: Honorable Intentions
Round 2: For Want of a Nail
Round 3: Attack of the Cheerleaders

So now what? Well, I’ll tell you. Last Friday at midnight(12/9) the remaining 48 of us received these prompts:

Genre: OPEN [Writer’s choice]
Setting: A TRADING FLOOR
Object: SCRAPBOOK

Finding my story

A trading floor is a pretty cool setting when you happen to live with a stock market guy who can tell you stuff! The coolest bit of information my darling husband shared with me, after we’d agreed the point-of-view character was going to be an 8-year-old boy on the autism spectrum, was that the Marvel cast rang the opening bell at the NYSE before the last Avengers movie opened. I have to say a special note of thanks to my sweet, patient husband, who agonized over every word of this story with me. You might say he was invested. And I did drive him nuts, not gonna lie. If I read the story 35 times, he probably read it 25. That’s… 25,000 words. And I didn’t really feed him much all weekend. Ah, the glamorous life!

A few very special folks gave me advice on everything from superheroes to parenting an autistic boy (and being one), and a very special shout-out to a new friend from the contest (Carrie Beth) who gave me invaluable help with my draft. Many thanks to Shell, Domie, Brad, Kitkat, PJ, and always Chayasara. Special shout-out to Alec Frazier at Autistic Reality for his candor, heart, and love of superheroes.

We’re supposed to learn the judges’ final verdicts on January 9th at midnight, so I guess that will be a tense moment. But honestly, I have already gained so much by participating. Seriously, I don’t even need one of those participation trophies. I have received insightful critical comments from some excellent writers, and I’ve written a few stories I NEVER would have tried. And this time, I didn’t even get a stomach ache… so YAY! I don’t expect I will do this again because the stress of the 48 hours is just way too much, but I’ll chalk this up to a very positive experience that started right here. And now… my LAST FLASH FIC! Enjoy!

A HERO AT THE END OF THE DAY

“Just eight more hours, Gabe. That’s like watching The First Avenger four times.” Daddy places the visitor necklace over my head and settles the name tag right in the middle of Captain America’s shield. “Ready?”

Ready? I’M MEETING CAPTAIN AMERICA TODAY!

I nod.

Daddy opens the shiny, gold door. “Welcome to the New York Stock Exchange.”

So many people… It reminds me of when Mommy used to take me to the mall. Daddy doesn’t take me places without Mommy. Not like Emma and Will.

“I have a VIP today,” Daddy says to the man behind the counter.

“Oh! Someone gets to see Captain America ring the closing bell.” A buzzer scares me backwards into Daddy.

“It’s okay, Gabe.” Daddy pushes the silver bar, and I walk through. “Remember, stick close.”

Daddy says he works on the floor; this is a whole city. I’m too short to see everything. The ceiling reaches the sky. Towers of computer screens look like giant triple-layer cakes.

“Those are called ‘posts,’” Daddy says. “The brokers, like me, have desks around the outside of the room.”

My finger creeps below my name tag to trace the shield on my chest: five-pointed star, circle one, circle two, circle three. I start again, pressing harder. Daddy sees.

Mommy says my patterns make Daddy feel worried, not mad.

Daddy points out the bathroom as we walk down a row with computers on both sides. “Here’s my desk—securities location C-4. It matches your name tag. My cellphone number is there, too. See?”

I nod.

“Once the market opens, I’ll be running around, but I’ll keep checking in.”

“Okay.” I’m eight, not a baby.

“Why don’t we both get organized?”

I unzip my Avengers backpack and lay out my supplies: a stack of old comics, scissors, a glue stick, markers, and a brand-new scrapbook.

Some people start clapping. Daddy says a swear. “The opening bell’s about to ring!”

He digs out my headphones, settles them over my ears, and turns on the white noise.

When the bell’s over, we take off my headphones. The grownups start using outside voices and chasing each other around, like everyone’s at recess.

I get busy on my story. Cutting. Gluing. Drawing.

My tummy rumbles, and I remember Mommy packed snacks. I’m eating grapes when Daddy comes by. He checks his watch and says a swear.

“I’m so sorry, Gabe. I forgot all about lunch.” He looks at my scrapbook and smiles. “Have you practiced what you’re going to say?”

I shake my head. Either the words will come or they won’t.

“You’ll be great,” Daddy says. “I gotta go.”

I eat the peanut butter sandwich next and the pretzels a while later. I’m so thirsty, I drink the whole bottle of water.

I need to pee. So bad.

Daddy’s gone, better hold it.

What if I pee my pants when I meet Captain America?

I am not a baby.

The bathroom is right… here. I do my business and even wash my hands. Mommy would be proud.

I leave the bathroom. Now, it’s too loud and too bright and too fast.

I hold my sides and look at the floor and spin and spin.

Which way is C-4? I’m all turned around. My brain won’t work.

“…just trying to help.”

Stranger danger!

Grabby hands.

“Daddy! Daddy!”

“Check his badge…”

I curl into a tight ball.

“…says ‘semi-verbal.’”

“Gabriel! Oh, God! Gabe.”

Daddy’s knees hit the floor beside me, then his hands, then the tip of his purple tie. “Daddy’s here. Can I hug you, Gabe? Please?”

I scoot my body closer to Daddy. His arms stretch around me and lift me into his lap. He rocks me against his chest. I want to stay so bad, but I can’t.

I squirm away, and he lets me.

Daddy’s eyes are watery. “Y’okay, Gabe?”

I want to go home, but then I won’t meet Cap. I nod.

“Wanna call Mommy?” Daddy asks. I shake my head.

“I’m so proud of you, Gabriel.”

We move my scrapbook and markers under Daddy’s desk. I put on my headphones and draw. Daddy sticks close and peeks in now and then.

The last peek-in, Daddy points to his watch and holds up four fingers. I almost hit my head jumping up, but Daddy’s hand blocks me.

We hurry toward the platform. The crowd crushes in. Someone bumps me. I twist Daddy’s pants in my fist.

Daddy swooshes me onto his shoulders. Captain America salutes me!

“Daddy! Did you SEE?”

Daddy slides me down his back and eases the headphones off. “Yes, I sure did.”

Everyone lets me go first in line.

Captain America comes out and smiles—at me! “I like your shirt.”

My face heats up. I look down.

Daddy whispers in my ear. “Want me to say it?”

I nod.

“Gabriel wants you to know you’re his hero.”

“That’s awesome,” Cap says. “Thank you.”

I stare hard at Cap’s boots. My body shakes.

“Would you mind signing his scrapbook?”

“If Gabriel wouldn’t mind holding my shield.”

Mind?

I hand Cap my scrapbook and pen. He hands me his shield. Vibranium’s heavy.

Cap opens to the newspaper clipping for Infinity War. “Seeing the movie tomorrow?”

I nod real fast.

“Excellent!” Cap writes something, then flips through the pages, saying “Wow” and “Wish I could draw like you!”

He reaches the last page, stops, and brings the book to his face. “Have you seen this, Gabriel’s dad?”

Daddy shakes his head. “Been kind of a long day, Cap.”

Cap turns the scrapbook so Daddy can see. It’s me with Daddy, in his suit and purple tie, flying high above the towers. His arm is around my waist. We’re both smiling.

Tears spill down Daddy’s cheeks.

“Looks like your son has more than one hero,” Cap says.

On the way home, I glue my visitor necklace into my “Best Day Ever” scrapbook. Right next to the picture of Daddy, Cap and me.

It’s Not Easy To Be Funny On Demand…

By Beth Greenberg November 10, 2016 October 16, 2023

Did someone say Rom-Com?

Ever tried to be funny on demand? Lemme tell ya, it ain’t easy!

At midnight on Nov. 1, I learned I’d made the cut for round 3 of the NYCM Flash Fiction Challenge. YAY! Our 2100 entrant pool shrank to 300 competitors, 48 of whom will progress to the finals. Fun, right?

Here’s where you can find my blog posts on the other 3 rounds of this contest:
Round 1: Honorable Intentions
Round 2: For Want of a Nail
Finals: Hero At the End of the Day

This crazy flash fiction challenge always seems like a great idea until I have to actually pump out a thousand words [or, in my case, pump out 1500 and back out one-third of them] in “48” hours—which, unless you’re a walrus or giraffe, actually amounts to 32 awake hours, less any outside obligations. I had a doozy of a real-life commitment this time, our close friends’ son’s wedding Saturday night—and I was determined and excited to be fully present.

Three nights later, I stared at my computer at midnight on Friday, heart pounding, not even sure what genre I hoped for. After historical fiction and romance, I figured I was in for political satire or something equally impossible. And then… THIS popped up onto my screen:

Genre:ROM-COM
Setting: COMPUTER REPAIR SHOP
Object: MEGAPHONE

Romance again (wow) but COMEDY? (yikes!) Funny, and on demand?

I snuggled into bed and let those prompts swirl together into… ugh, not much, as it turned out. Luckily, my “plot coaches” were awake and caffeinated early Saturday morning. While we batted around ideas, I reminded myself (repeatedly) not to freak out. I have a tempo that’s worked so far— free-wheeling idea generation, marination time, identifying major plot points and the majority of dialogue by the end of the first 24 hours. Writing, tweaking, editing, and title generation on Sunday. I gotta tell ya, though, a ton of trust is required to watch the clock tick down with zero words on the screen, and I held my shit together pretty well…

Until about 2 p.m. Saturday, when panic seized me, in its old familiar form—a major stomach ache. Started out the size of a pea, but by 4, that sucker was a grapefruit. If we hadn’t left for the wedding, I might have continued to choke my story with the iron grip of despair. Fortunately, I had a joyful diversion, and I didn’t even think about my challenge again until 2 a.m. Sunday (the pre-DST one), which is when all the story problems resolved with a Matrix-like clarity. I sat at the desk in our hotel room with a pen and paper, scribbling story notes until my brain emptied out, then I slept for a few hours. Woke up Sunday and the words marched into place.

As I fell into bed well after midnight on Sunday, physically and emotionally spent, I experienced that unbelievable rush of finishing the story, completing the challenge, writing 1000 words in 48 hours. I tried to sear that positive feeling into my brain, just in case, God forbid, I make the final round. [SPOILER ALERT: I DID, and you can read about that here!]

I survived what I now recognize as the 7 Stages of Flash Fiction Weekend:
1. Excitement (Got my prompts, Fun, Yay, I can do this!)
2. Panic (What the hell am I gonna write? I cannot do this! What was I thinking?)
3. Inspiration (An idea! This might work!)
4. Exhilaration (Look at me! I’m writing a story!)
5. Panic (watches ticking time bomb, I don’t have to submit)
6. Acceptance (It is time.)
7. Remorse (I coulda/woulda/shoulda… —this one gets worse as you read the other entries)

Special shout-outs to my online village: Stacey (Tech support), Kitkat, Karen, & Betti (plot ideas and humor team), Shell (the je ne sais quoi of writing support), and Sue (grammar, word choice, beginnings, endings, and everything in between). I love you guys! God bless my honey of a hubby for mental health support, story details, and truly horrible titles, the worst of which was “Porn Free.” Actually, it’s pretty good.

I hope this light morsel will bring your mind to a happier place for a little bit! Thanks for reading!
XOXOX ~b

Attack of the Cheerleaders

When the girl of his dreams needs a computer whiz’s help, it’s either the best or worst birthday he’s ever had.

Today, I am a man, and yet, my life hasn’t changed since yesterday. I went to school. I came to work. I’ll go home, do some homework, and go to bed. Cait Harvey will still have no idea who I am.

“Happy birthday, man.” Eli sets a Subway bag on my desk. “Sorry about the wrapping.”

I tear open the bag, expecting a can of Dr. Pepper, maybe a bag of chips. Instead, I find a six-inch sculpture of Canyon High’s cheerleading captain.

“This is awesome!”

“Had to test our new 3D printer. Figured, why not make a Cait, for the man who has nothing?”

“Gee, thanks.” I run my fingertips over the smooth, yellow plastic. “Is this a megaphone?”

“Yes, it’s detachable.” Eli plucks off the tiny cone and points out the “Happy birthday, Raj,” in green lettering.

“Impressive.”

“In case you wondered, she’s anatomically correct.”

“You are so sick.” I flip it and peek under the skirt.

“Made ya look.”

“I hate you. Go home.”

Eli chuckles. “Going. You finished Dragon Lady’s laptop, right?”

“I think I can handle a Windows 10 install.”

“Don’t piss her off, Raj.”

“Yes, Mother.”

I’m still admiring Eli’s workmanship when the door opens, and in scurries Cait Harvey, cheerleading uniform and all. For a stupid second, I’m sure I’ve conjured her—a life-size replica of the 3D model—until she speaks.

“Hello?”

I jump up and fling mini-Cait into the recycling bin. The megaphone flies across the room and rolls to a stop near the front door. My armpits pump out Niagara Falls.

“Can I help you?”

“I have an emergency!” She pulls a laptop from her backpack. Our eyes meet for the first time, and she freezes. “You’re the vaulter.”

“You’ve seen me vault?”

“Yeah. We practice at the track.” I know this. I just had no idea she paid any attention to us—to me. “You’re good.”

I swallow hard. “Thank you. So are you.”

“You wear glasses?”

“Just at work.” I finger the dark frames. Nothing I can do about it now.

“Hmm.” She cranes her neck to look around me. “Isn’t anyone else here?”

“Nope, just me.”

“Ugh. This is super embarrassing.”

“I’ve pretty much seen it all.”

“So, I swear I wasn’t watching porn…”

My antiperspirant takes another hit. “Okay?”

“I was working out a routine, googled ‘cheerleader straddle,’ and all these windows popped up and froze my computer.”

I somehow manage not to hurdle the counter. “Let’s have a look.”

I cannot open her computer fast enough once she lets go. The screen is a glorious montage of spread-legged girls wearing the bare minimum to establish they’re cheerleaders.

It works—I’m cheery. Then it hits me: Cait’s watching me look at porn.

I snap the lid shut. “This is nothing I haven’t seen before.”

“Excuse me?”

“The malware attack, I mean.”

“How long will it take to fix?” she asks.

“I won’t know how extensive the damage is until I get inside. Let’s say Tuesday.”

“Tuesday?”

“We close in half an hour for the weekend.”

“Our bus leaves tomorrow morning… All our music is on here. What am I gonna do?”

I glance at the ThinkPad I’m supposed to be updating. The choice is clear.

“I can squeeze you in now.”

She blows out a massive breath. “Thank you!”

“Don’t thank me yet. I don’t know what we can recover.” If her hard drive is fried, this magical moment will end soon.

I work; she paces. The external boot is successful, and her data files appear to be uncorrupted. I copy everything to a thumb drive as a precaution before running the malware scan and powering down. We reboot together, holding our breath on opposite sides of the service counter until we hear the happy bing of a healthy operating system.

“It’s fixed!” she shouts.

“Hold that thought.” I spin the screen toward her. “Type in your password, please.”

Seconds later, the shop fills with porn-star moans at full volume. Cait shoves the laptop back at me. I click the windows closed as fast as my fingers can navigate the touchpad, but it’s not fast enough.

“Obviously, I’ve come at a bad time.” Dragon Lady.

I slap the mute button. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Dragonov. I haven’t quite finished your updates. We got slammed.”

“I can see that.” She nails Cait with a nasty glare. “Your boss will be hearing from me, Rajiv. You can kiss your job goodbye!” She yanks the door open and stomps out of the store.

Cait swings the door closed with a gentle click. “I’m so sorry—”

Something on the floor catches her eye, and I realize a beat too late what she’s found. She crouches to pick it up. “‘Happy birthday, Raj’?” She holds the tiny megaphone inches from my face. “What is this?”

I’ve just flushed my job down the toilet. Why shouldn’t my last scrap of dignity dive in, too?

“It was a birthday present from a friend who knows I, uh, have a thing for a certain cheerleader.”

Her cute blonde eyebrows arch. “You do?”

“Yep.” Go ahead. Kick me while I’m down.

“Did this girl”—a hint of a smile plays at the edges of her lips—“just get you fired on your birthday?”

“You didn’t get me fired. I made my own choice.”

Her smile breaks free. “So, it is me!”

I open my arms in surrender. “Busted.”

Cait places the megaphone onto my outstretched palm, then closes her own hand over mine and wriggles her fingers into my valleys. “I might have a thing for a certain computer whiz.”

And I might explode from happiness. “Yeah?”

“Mmhmm, and that Clark Kent vibe… hell, yes.”

“I always thought Superman was the hot one.”

“You know what’s hot, Raj?” I can almost see my name doing a forward roll off her tongue. “Risking your job to follow your passion. I would totally cheer for that guy.”

Round 1 Story

Round 2 Story

FINALS